ugly day at work???

A man came into the bank last week. He walked up to my window to make a deposit and he said, "Hello, Scarface." I was a little caught off-guard and reached my hand up to my face a little bit, afraid that perhaps I had a blemish I had scratched and was now oozing out ugly. Or perhaps my whole appearance that day was a little off, it had been a while since I'd looked in the mirror. The man looked closer at my name-plate and announced that he had read my name wrong.

Today he came back to my window. I remembered him instantly. It's not every day that a beautiful girl such as myself is confused as "Scarface."

Mr. Eastwood

My father is a Clint Eastwood fan. He owns just about every Clint Eastwood movie on VHS and is working on replacing them with the DVDs. I wonder what would happen if my dad were ever to meet Mr. Eastwood. He seems to believe the actor's principles are golden, thus taking on the redneck qualities Eastwood has both in the old westerns and the modern day cop movies.

I, on the other hand, think Mr. Eastwood talks awful hick-like to be taken too seriously. But then again, I talk faster than most people can comprehend so...

Ten dollars. That was the cost of the movie last night. I paid ten dollars (plus my sister's ticket) to watch a two hour waste of my time on the big screen.

I hate to sound old womanish but I seriously remember the days when movies cost $2.50. Those were the days when child tickets and matinee prices were the same. Oh, to pay the child prices again.

But wasting ten dollars on a stupid movie was just horrible. I used to find Owen Wilson funny. And the kids were pretty funny. But the curly haired woman teacher was a stupid wench. She had no brains. Who writes these characters? Are there people like this in real life?

I've always thought of myself as a rather openminded movie-buff. But as my social life has become socially elite, my movie taste has also become rather selective. All I can say about last night is, I wish we'd been watching Juno.

Marge.

That was my name. I was Marge. I had a secret marriage to Tony and I was a struggling actor. That was my role.

On casting day, the director announced me as the understudy. Bridget had the real role. I would not get to play the part unless she got sick or she couldn't make it to the performances. But she flaked out, stopped going to school and I got the part.

I wasn't made to be an actor. I could tell this because of the awkwardness I felt on stage during that stint of stardom those seven years ago.

Truth be told, I couldn't cut it. Marge had a secret marriage to Tony. The two were in love. But the guy who played Tony was an annoying Freshman and I couldn't do it. I couldn't kiss him. I couldn't pretend to like him let alone love him. The fakeness of the whole acting thing just didn't work with me. I'm a bad liar, anyone who knows me could tell you that.

I suppose my childhood dreams of becoming a famous actress could never be actualized. Macaulay Culkin married someone else and then took alternative roles in movies. We were never meant to be.

I guess this all means nothing cuz in truth, I'm doing pretty well these days.

the f.a.n.t.e.

I think I was a bit of a loser in the early years of grade school. I write, "I think" because I didn't know at the time that I was a loser. Not only did I stay in from recess to write in my journal, but I also hung out with the teachers at recess, counted down the days 'til the weekend, and strived to get all pluses in every subject.

Things got more awkward in sixth grade when I developed into a thorough "chunk" with a bright pink cast. How I ever imagined I'd be an olympic balance beamer, I'll never know.

Then came the junior high years when I got called "pizza face" by a little kid half my age and I the years of ugly haircuts.

And then at last, I outgrew it. The ugly phase was behind me. I was now a "real" person.

But that's where I am now, that real person, the thing we call, "being an adult." While I think someday I'll figure out how to do something great, right now I wish I could go back to being that zitty faced teenager and seeing what sort of thoughts were really going through my head. Was I only concerned about those athletic guys I wrote my best friend letters about? Or was there anything else running through that crazy head of mine?

Failure

Sports stars and perfectionists around the world believe in five simple words: Failure Is Not An Option.

I am no such perfectionist. As I've come to realize that I, in fact, am not perfect, despite my stellar sense of humor and annoying organizational habits, I not the Supergirl I once thought I was. Yes, I may have the blonde hair and amazing blue eyes, but the cape hasn't fit me since I was about five and I can't fly.

This all came up because I didn't get accepted to the one grad. school I applied to. I was determined to attend Oregon. It wasn't too far away, had a liberal community in which I could settle, and it had a good reputation.

And now I am lost. It's happened before. What should I do next? My plans are so wide open that I might as well flip a coin or put all the options in a hat and draw.

I'm okay. I figure it'll all work out. I may not be cut out for a master's degree yet but my life is still sure to be interesting.

To adjust is

Since arriving back to the states, I've done many things to make myself busy and somehow enjoy life back in America. At first, I wrote a lot of letters and notes to my friends back in Ukraine. Then, I put all my energy into grad school applications and job applications. But now that I've completed my first month at my "new" job, I've discovered my newest attempt to adjust to American life.

I have thrown myself into television on DVDs. At first, it was the Gilmore Girls. Then, I rewatched Grey's Anatomy. But then I discovered my haven. It was The O.C.

I have never lived in California. In fact, I don't know that California would ever take me into her world. I don't know how to surf. My hair isn't blonde anymore, let alone reasonably presentable. And I've never tried to wear a bikini. But this show has me hooked.

Chrismukkah got me for sure. A special holiday in which we bring all the goodness of different traditions into one house is ideal. And the man who created it, Mr. Seth Cohen, has stolen my heart.

I woule never be able to make it in the O.C. In fact, there are times when I wonder if I can really make it in this small rural town in which I am currently living. But I suppose I'm here for now.

I finished the fourth season the other day. Now it's all over and I'm back in my own life. And while my life is never as sensational as the television lives I have become engrossed with, there's one thing I know. My life is a mystery. I can't read ahead on the internet to see what's up next. I'm not syndicated so people can watch me at five and then again at two in the morning. My life is all its own and it's up to me to keep it interesting.

I guess right now, I've just gotta wait and figure out what I want just for today...

There is a distinct smell on the lower class of people: stale cigarette smoke and greasy fast food. When customers enter my work with some such stench, I try to decipher the smell. Where were they eating? What kind of food? Were they smoking with friends? Alone? Do they smoke a pack a day or just a couple of cigarettes a day?

I would never ask these questions aloud...or would I? If I weren't working on paying off my debt, I wouldn't bat an eyelash and I'd just ask. But these days, I must preserve my current position.